Newton's Third Law of Motion
by Lost In Rotation
Summary: 'If he could still find humor in a situation, her words would be cause for laughter. But there is no humor left inside Branch Connally. Only secrets, and lies, and pain.' Every action has an equal but opposite reaction. Not even the Connallys can defy the laws of nature. One-shot set after 3.10 (spoilers). Branch/Cady, Walt, Barlow


There are a lot of things he needs to apologize for. For the way he treated her. For the things he said in Colorado. And these are just the two on the tip of his tongue. If he could take the time to sit down and write out a list, it would take him ages.

Especially now. He doesn't have just himself to think about now. He has to think about his father. The pieces all fit, the omission confessed, and yet it still doesn't seem possible. Such a heinous act, and all for what? For him to carry on a family legacy? For the opportunity at a position of high authority for him? Had his father really thought the position worth so much?

The thoughts swim endlessly in his head. He thinks that, perhaps, when he sees her it will bring the right words to his mouth. Similar to the way that the sight of Walt in the beat up old truck sucked the words right out. To his credit, Walt had taken the sight of the scene fairly well, all things considered. His mental stability has been in question more times than he can count, but when Walt saw him sitting there, the shotgun discarded by his side, he didn't say a word. At least not to Branch. Walt had hurried back to the truck, grabbed the radio, and called for the paramedics to meet them as soon as they got to the edge of town.

He wanted to tell Walt. Had thought about it several, several times as he sat shotgun in the truck on the way back to the station, his father's body a motionless lump in the back, his torn white t-shirt a poor man's tourniquet hastily tied around his father's right arm. He'd even parted his lips; opened his mouth with the first words of the confession on the tip of his tongue.

Then he'd seen the box nestled carefully in the center console of the front seat. The box that Cady had mentioned once, back when they spoke of personal things, of secrets, and not twisted words that meant well but stung to the core. The sight of the box alone had been enough to unnerve him. The fact that the edge of an unsealed plastic bag sat sandwiched between the lid and the base stole the words, and the breath, from him. It didn't take a deputy to figure out what Walt had done.

So he hadn't told Walt. How could he? The sheriff had just made peace with his wife's death, or at least made as much peace as Walt Longmire ever could with such a thing. How could Branch be the one to explain, in that instant, that he'd shot his father to defend himself after confronting his father about Walt's wife's murder? That his father had been a hair away from pulling the trigger on his own gun, to silence the truth of his actions? So he hadn't said anything, hadn't had the balls. Instead, he'd spent the rest of the bumpy ride through the unpaved roads at breakneck speed with his head jostling against the window, willing the impacts of his forehead against the glass to shake the truths away.

His father's last words push all the other thoughts from his head as he sits in an uncomfortable wooden chair at the station. There's been no word on his father's condition, and he honestly doesn't know what outcome he's hoping for. It's unfathomable, to shoot one's own father. He'd seen it, of course, in his line of work, but he had never understood it, not before today. The horridness of the thought is only overshadowed by the thought of a parent trying to kill an heir.

"Branch."

He draws his downcast eyes away from the pocketed wood of the floor. Away from the nervous jitter in his leg that refuses to stop shaking. After ensuring that the paramedics saw to Barlow, Walt had insisted that Branch be examined as well. The paramedics has declared him fine, oblivious to the nervous tick that sent his leg galloping stationary against the ground.

He isn't fine, of course. He hadn't been fine in a long, long time now. It doesn't matter that he's been right all along about David Ridges. It doesn't matter that he hadn't descended into visions of insanity. He'd still descended into a dark, deep type of madness, and he hadn't managed to crawl his way back out yet. After this, he isn't certain he'll ever be able to.

He stands at the whispered sound of his name, hoping that putting weight on his leg will stop its tick. She's seen enough of his darkness, enough of the broken shell he's become. He doesn't want her to see him like this. For perhaps the first time since he laid eyes on the beautiful, brilliant, remarkable daughter of the grouchy, gruff sheriff, he doesn't want her to see him at all. Especially since the sight of her does nothing to quiet the hundreds of voices pounding in his head. He's just as lost as when his eyes landed on the box in the truck.

She doesn't say anything else as she strides quickly across the open expanse of the room. Her arms wrap around his neck, pulling him towards her. She looks so innocent in her blue and white polka dotted shirt pulled on over the soft yellow tank beneath. He can practically feel the sweat and the blood transfer from his ruined shirt onto hers, but if she notices she doesn't comment. She certainly doesn't pull away. If anything, he feels her pull him closer.

It's that subtle movement that breaks him. The uncertainty in his own mindset and his need to prove himself has held him together all this time, but her concern pulls away at the binds that have held him together, abet precariously on the edge. If it hadn't been the embrace, it would have been something else. Perhaps her smell, which is overpowering even over the filth of the dirt and blood and sweat he carries. Perhaps just the sight of her would have done it. He's never been able to resist her. He's not about to start now.

"I'm sorry." He chokes on the words, whispered against the hollow of her neck where he buries his head. And with these two small words, he unravels completely. The sobs rack through him as he clings to her, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of her shirt, the firm yet gentle skin beneath them oddly comforting. "I'm so, so sorry."

He would trade his own life if he could go back in time and change the moment where his father had made that decision. If he could take away the deal his father had made with Jacob Nighthorse, he would do it without a moment's hesitation. Anything to spare her from the pain the truth will inflict.

"You're okay," she tells him, though her own voice waivers.

If he could still find humor in a situation, her words would be cause for laughter. But there is no humor left inside Branch Connally. Only secrets, and lies, and pain.

He'll have to tell both her and Walt. He knows this to be a truth with no alternative. But he wants one more moment with her, before he takes away that last remaining grain of hope he has of ever being more to her again than just the deputy that lost his way and his humanity. The guy that attacked her in a dazed state from his hospital bed. The guy that said those words in Colorado about her mother that he never thought he could have said.

"What happened?" From the way her head shifts, he knows she's asking for outside consult, that the words aren't directed at him. The rest of the conversation feels muted. All his senses are focused on the feeling of her pulled against him, of guilt strangling him.

"What happened?" He refocuses as he realizes her words are pointed to him now. The frigid air slaps his cheek as she pulls away, though she quickly cups his jaw in her hand. As she pulls his face to draw his line of sight onto hers, he sees the redness in her pale blue eyes. From the way her eyes dart ever so slightly side to side he can read the concern written in them. If only she knew. If only he could find the words to tell her.

"Branch." She tries to hide the panic in her voice, but he notices the undertone. Her other hand catches the opposite side of his face, her grasp a vice clamp around his head. Her thumb idly strokes his cheek, though to comfort him or herself he isn't certain.

"My dad," he starts, but doesn't finish. Because now he remembers how it felt to see her lying there, unconscious, in the hospital bed on the day of the election. Realizes that his father's need to carry on a Connally legacy didn't just take a mother from Cady Longmire. It almost took her life. And the guilt and the pain amplify in his stomach at this realization, twisting and turning like a knife.

"Why did you shoot him?" she asks. She's definitely a lawyer, through and through. He can hear it in her tone, even when she tries to be considerate and concerned. "What happened out there?"

But still he doesn't say. He will. He promises himself he will. He turns his head slightly to kiss the palm of her hand. As if sensing his need, she wipes the tears from his eyes. Pulls him the few paces back to the chair. Dropping into the chair, she releases his face. Though it is a rare sight, she is no stranger to this side of him. It hurts how well she understands.

He sinks to his knees before her, not even feeling the pain as the wooden boards jar his kneecaps. His hands clutch her waist as her fingers find his hair, pulling him closer. "He's going to be fine," she tells him as he buries his face into her chest, the pressure of his fingertips hard on her upper thighs. Undoubtedly, she seeks to offer him comfort. She has no idea the irony behind her words.

None of them are going to be fine. Not this time.

It takes him a few minutes until the words finally tumble from his mouth. At first, he isn't sure that she heard the words muffled against her shirt. But then her hands freeze against his scalp, and he knows with certainty that she did.

His fingers tighten against the denim of her jeans. He closes his eyes. He takes one last shaky breath.

And he waits.


End file.
